


Blind Spot

by there_must_be_a_lock



Category: Criminal Minds (US TV)
Genre: Accusations of Intercourse with Fictional Tree-Beasts, Awkward Flirting, Dirty Talk, Don't Worry Nobody Fucks An Ent, Dorks, Failboats In Love, First Kiss, First Time, Friends to Lovers, Gratuitous Bird Nest Facts, Hair Pulling Kink, Other, gender neutral reader
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-23
Updated: 2021-02-07
Packaged: 2021-03-14 22:02:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,582
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28927758
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/there_must_be_a_lock/pseuds/there_must_be_a_lock
Summary: Spencer walks into a bush and also has a hair-pulling kink. That's it that's the fic.
Relationships: Spencer Reid/Reader
Comments: 6
Kudos: 108





	1. Chapter 1

“You look like you fucked an Ent,” you commented cheerfully, stealing sideways glances at Spencer while you waited for the light to change. 

“Thanks, that’s helpful.” He grimaced, trying to tug another burr out of a snarled curl. 

“Oh my god, you’re just making it worse! I’ll help you when we get back to your place. Leave it, you goober.” 

“Did you just call me a goober?” Spencer asked, trying not to laugh. 

“You’re like the dictionary definition of a goober,” you said fondly. 

“I have three PhDs!” 

“I _really_ wish I’d gotten a video of that tumble, Doctor Goober.” 

Spencer was blushing, grinning down at his lap as he shredded a piece of leaf. It was hard not to stare at him when he smiled like that. 

He’d essentially face-planted into a burr bush earlier, somewhere in the Virginia woods — he’d been so excited about explaining some wonky bit of Star Trek physics theory to you that he just forgot to pay attention to his feet — and he’d floundered out with half a hedge stuck in his hair before picking up exactly where he’d left off. 

In other words, Doctor Spencer Reid was a _ridiculous_ human being. You knew that, objectively. It didn’t stop you from having a massive crush on him. 

Either he was pretending not to notice, to spare your feelings, or he was socially oblivious; you tended to believe the former, considering how well you’d seen him read other people, but you appreciated it. There was a chance you’d make it out of this — if you could just _get over it already_ — with your friendship intact. 

You cleared your throat and told him, “You look like the bastard child of Grandmother Willow and the Wizard of Oz scarecrow.” 

“Even if they were real, the anatomical —” 

“You didn’t mention that when I brought up the Ents. Something you want to tell me about you and Treebeard?” 

“You’re ridiculous,” he huffed, trying to sound exasperated, but he could barely keep a straight face for a second before he was laughing, that scratchy sunny childish giggle that only came out when he was really relaxed and carefree. 

“Close the window before a bird sees you and decides to take up residence.” 

“How about you watch the road?”

“What, no facts about bird nests?” 

“Is that a rhetorical question?” 

“Nope.” 

“Well in that case… gyrfalcon nests are frequently re-used and passed along for generations. The oldest one that’s been discovered was in Greenland, and it was actually estimated to be approximately 2,500 years old.” 

“Seriously?” 

“Yes! In fact…” 

You had to remind yourself, yet again, to stop staring. 

Maybe someday you’d get sick of hearing Spencer talk, but you couldn’t really understand the way most of your teammates reacted to his rambling. Even if you didn’t care about what he was saying, there was something amazing about the way his eyes lit up and his hands fluttered around to illustrate his point.

You parked in front of his building and followed him upstairs. His apartment had become comfortingly familiar — ever since you and Spencer bonded over a shared love of sci-fi, you’d taken to driving him home and, if it wasn’t too late, sticking around for an episode or two of Doctor Who. 

He got his ancient little DVD player up and running, and you settled on the couch, fluffing pillows and shoving aside his nest of colorful crocheted blankets, getting cozy. There was something about Spencer’s space that always felt like home; maybe it was the smell of books, or just the general Spencer-ness of the whole place. 

Just being around _him_ had always kinda felt like home, too. Sometimes you forgot you’d only known him for six months. 

He disappeared into his room for a second and came back with a comb. It was cheap plastic, missing a couple teeth, and looked like it hadn’t been used in a while. You looked from him to the comb and back again. 

“That actually explains a lot,” you said, grinning. Spencer rolled his eyes and sat down on the floor in front of you, leaning back against your shins, and after a dismayed glance at his curls, you commented, “We could always just shave it all off.” 

“I’m not going to dignify that with an answer,” he said primly. 

You started with a couple of the less tangled pieces, finger-combing carefully through one soft lock at a time. You half-expected some comment about primates and social grooming, or at least a few facts about the quantum theory behind the TARDIS, but Spencer was uncharacteristically quiet and still, his eyes fixed on the TV. 

You separated out one of the worst knots, and he tilted his head to the side to give you better access. You were being as gentle as possible, but you knew you were hurting him at the first tug — he sucked in a breath, knuckles going white as his fingers clenched on his knees. 

“Sorry, I’m trying,” you sighed. 

With his head tilted like this, you could see the muscle clenching in his jaw and the way his Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed hard. 

“S’okay,” he whispered hoarsely. “It’s not — not your fault.” 

He sat there stiffly as you worked. His hair was silky, where it wasn’t hopelessly knotted, and you were close enough that you could smell whatever clean, sweet shampoo he used. Something about it made you want to hold your breath; it felt like you were _too_ close. Spencer rarely let you inside his little bubble of personal space. 

Maybe that was why he seemed uncomfortable. He was usually so fidgety, tapping out a rhythm or twirling a pen between his long fingers, and it was strange to see him motionless like this. 

You ran your fingers through a de-tangled section, slow and careful, and Spencer shivered, his shoulders trembling for a moment before he went unnaturally still again. 

Spencer blurted out, “Maybe this isn’t a good idea.”

At the same time, you asked, “Are you cold?” 

You paused for a moment, surprised by the reaction, but after hesitating, Spencer just muttered, “Yeah. Cold.” 

You couldn’t shake the feeling that you were missing something. It was too warm, if anything; Spencer had a patchy flush crawling up his neck and over the sharp lines of his jaw and cheekbones. 

“Here you go, goober,” you said, awkwardly cheerful in an attempt to cover your uncertainty as you grabbed an afghan from the couch and draped it around his shoulders. 

“Thanks.” He pulled the blanket down onto his lap without looking at you. “But maybe I should just do this myself.” 

“You’re never gonna get this loose on your own, not without scissors,” you warned, plucking at the knot around the last burr in his hair. “I’ll just, um — I’ll try to be more gentle.” 

“Maybe just go for it,” he said. “Get it over with.” His voice had gone all high-pitched and strained, like he was on the verge of a panic attack. If this was how much he disliked physical contact, no wonder he always avoided hugging you. 

You tried to go quickly, figuring that one quick moment of pain was better than another ten minutes of making Spencer uncomfortable. In your nervousness, you ended up tugging the burr out much more abruptly than you’d intended, and Spencer let out this rough, low, choked-off sound. Before you could apologize, he was jerking away from you, curled in on himself with his shoulders up around his ears like he was worried you were going to hit him, and — 

“Sorry,” he said, voice cracking. 

— _what_? 

“Spence?” you said tentatively. “What—”

He was still just curled up on the floor in a ball of gangly limbs, but he half-turned to you, twisting around. He wouldn’t make eye contact, though; he was staring intently at the pillow that was on the couch next to you. It felt weird, looking down at him like this, so you slid down onto the floor, hoping it wouldn’t spook him. He shifted back slightly, but at least he didn’t flinch away. 

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled. “I didn’t — this was a bad idea.” 

The profiler in you couldn’t help but notice a few details. He was blushing, for starters. His lower lip was red where he’d been biting it, and — this was the part that surprised you most — his pupils were huge. 

You knew what Spencer looked like when he was panicking, and this wasn’t it. 

“Oh,” you breathed. “ _Oh_.” 

He looked down at his lap, frowning as he played with the loose thread in the cuff of his sweater. 

“Sorry,” he repeated. “I _know_ you don’t feel the same way, I wasn’t trying to — I didn’t realize it would be like that, I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable, and—”

“Wait, what?” 

“I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable! I shouldn’t have asked—”

“I don’t feel the same way about _what_?” 

“I know you’re not attracted to me,” Spencer said, barely audible. 

“You’re… you… _what_?” 

He looked up, at that, genuinely startled. There was something sweet and vulnerable shining in his eyes, and your heart was racing. You slid a little bit closer, so that your knees were almost touching Spencer’s as you faced each other, cross-legged. 

“I thought you knew.” His hushed, croaky voice broke on the last word. “I thought I was being obvious.” 

You gaped at him for a second before letting out a sharp, hysterical giggle. 

He ducked his head again, hiding behind a curtain of hair, but not before you saw the hurt expression that flashed across his features. 

“No, that’s not—” you blurted out. “Spence. _Spencer_.” 

“Forget it,” he said sharply, his body going tense like he was about to bolt. “Can we just forget this happened?” 

Before you could think better of it, you reached out and pushed a few curls back behind his ear, and then you _grabbed_ , twisting your fingers in his hair to tug him forward. You cut off the startled noise he made with a clumsy, eager kiss. 

The angle was all wrong, both of you leaning forward awkwardly, but it felt like sparks all down your spine.

You pulled away just far enough to get the words out: “I thought _I_ was being obvious.” 

Then Spencer was surging closer on his hands and knees, crowding into your space, until you had a lapful of rumpled doctor pressing you back against the couch. He cupped your jaw with gentle spidery fingers, gaze locked on your mouth, and leaned in slowly like he was still waiting for you to push him away. 

There was nothing awkward about it this time. If the first kiss was sparks, this was fireworks — it was such a goddamn cliche you wanted to _kick_ yourself for thinking it, but it was true. Your head was spinning. Every pillowy press of his lips and soft slide of his tongue seemed to steal the breath from your lungs. 

By the time you broke apart you were panting, but at least you weren’t the only one. Spencer’s chest heaved as he pulled away. He was still staring at your mouth like he couldn’t help himself. Part of you wanted to kiss him again and maybe never stop, but another part of you was paralyzed, trying to process the fact that this was _actually happening_. 

You just wanted to put the world on pause so that you could memorize everything: the way he licked his lips, the smell of his laundry detergent, the barely-perceptible movement of his pulse — you’d never _seen_ that before because you’d never been this _close_ to him before. You wanted to hold onto it, even the less-than-perfect details — the soundtrack of buzzy Dalek screeching in the background — the way you were folded together on the floor, all too-long legs and bony elbows, which was going to get uncomfortable _fast_. 

Spencer seemed to feel the same way. He grazed the pad of his thumb over your lower lip, then followed the curve of your smile out to your temple and traced the shell of your ear with careful fingertips. When he brushed his curled-up fingers along the ridge of your cheekbone, you turned your head and kissed his knuckles. 

His hand came to rest on your shoulder, and you wrapped your fingers around his wrist, holding it in place, feeling the blood and bones shifting under the skin. 

“You really didn’t know?” you whispered. 

He shook his head shyly and gave you one of those incandescent smiles that always made your heart race. “No idea.” 

“I thought you were just ignoring it to spare my feelings,” you confessed. 

“I thought _you_ were doing that.” 

“I thought you were good at your job!” you laughed. “Aren’t you supposed to be a genius or something?” 

“I think I have a blind spot, where you’re concerned.” He was blushing again. “But I was so distracted by you that I walked into a bush! How did you not —” 

“I’m the one who _stares_ at you all the time like a creep.” 

“You thought _you_ were being creepy?” he said sheepishly. “As soon as you started touching my hair — oh my _god_ that’s embarrassing.” 

“That’s not the word I would’ve used.” 

You tangled your fingers in his curls, tugging experimentally. His breath hitched. 

Both of you were utterly still for a moment, watching each other, and the tension between you seemed to fill the air like a living thing. You were excruciatingly aware of all the places your bodies were touching.

You considered all the places you _could_ touch. It would be so easy. You could tug him in, kiss him, melt into each other… there were so many possibilities, suddenly, and there was something incredible about that: the electricity, the excitement, the moment of pure potential in the pause between certainty and action. 

Spencer sighed, long and shaky, and you were so close that you could feel the current of exhaled air. 

“I couldn’t think straight,” he murmured, with a twitch of a smile. “That doesn’t happen to me often.” 

“So you didn’t know…” 

You scritched your fingernails down his scalp, marveling at the way he shivered and swayed closer like he was hypnotized. He curled his hand around the side of your neck, thumb slowly stroking the hinge of your jaw. 

“I knew I liked it,” he confessed. “But — within a certain context? Not out of nowhere like that. I didn’t think it would be... like _that_.” 

“Like what?”

“Intense.” 

“Yeah?” 

“But I think maybe it’s just _you_.” His eyes had gone all glassy and heavy-lidded, and you could barely breathe. “Maybe you drive me crazy no matter where you’re touching me.” 

“I can think of a few ways to test that hypothesis.” 

You caught a glimpse of his grin, but then he pressed his forehead to yours and his features went blurry, too close for you to focus.

“Never really thought I’d be into dirty talk, but if you’re going to start quoting the scientific method…” 

“Funny, most of the time you never shut up,” you said, giddy and overwhelmed. 

The tip of his nose brushed yours. There was maybe an inch of space between your mouths, and you wanted to close that gap so badly it felt like a physical ache. 

“I mean, if you _want_ me to start rattling off statistics—” 

“Spencer.” You fisted both hands in his hair, tugging sharply, and he shuddered. “Take a hint.” 

“Blind spot, remember?” he whispered, lips brushing yours as they shaped the words, feather-light and maddening. 

“You know, for a genius—” you started, but he kissed you, hungry and sweet like he was making up for lost time, until you’d completely forgotten what you were going to say. 


	2. In Theory

Sure, you used to try to ignore your crush on Spencer. It was just that your mind wandered, sometimes. You used to find yourself imagining how he might touch you, how he would sound, how he would taste… 

You know. Theoretically. 

You were aware that he didn’t really have much experience when it came to sex, at that point, and you always imagined him being shy. In your fantasies, he would blush when you asked him what he wanted — hesitate when he tried to answer — smile and stutter as he undressed you — and you predicted that if you ever were to end up in bed with Spencer, you would ( _theoretically_ ) be the one to take the lead. 

A month ago, when the two of you got together, you discovered that your hypothesis had been completely, totally, _gloriously_ wrong. 

You never could’ve imagined Spencer like _this_. His mouth is red and swollen, his eyes are dark with this fierce feral hunger, and he’s licking his lips as his long nimble fingers flutter and tease at this one particular sweet spot, deep inside, that you never even knew existed. You never could’ve imagined the way it feels, or the way you’re twisting and squirming and choking out his name, overstimulated and overwhelmed as you come down from another mind-numbingly intense orgasm.

It’s _Spencer_ , after all. Spencer Reid is earnest, and he’s sweet, and sometimes he’s a little clueless. He’s polite, when he’s not so preoccupied by his thoughts that he forgets his manners. You always assumed he was the kind of guy who would ask for permission before he tried anything. 

Holy _hell_ were you wrong. 

Well, not about the asking for permission thing. You were one hundred percent right about that — he’s unfailingly polite. It’s just… you never, ever imagined the things he’d politely ask for permission to _do_. 

(And yeah, he did have a brief moment of speechlessness when he first saw you naked, but there was no trace of hesitation when he finally did speak.) 

“Can I please watch you touch yourself?” he asked, eyes raking up and down your body like he was memorizing the sight of your skin. “I want you to show me what you like.” 

It was the _way_ he said it, too: that hoarse breathless tone of his, the way his voice cracked and crackled around the words. You’d heard it before, mostly when he felt shy or vulnerable — when he was being uncomfortably honest — and you’d always associated it with sweet unexpected compliments or earnest late-night conversations in the back of the jet. Something about that voice always sounded so _innocent_. 

Now, though, you hear that smoky voice whispering requests like, “Can you pull my hair?” and then a few minutes later, muffling his groan against the skin of your inner thigh, “ _Harder. Please_.” 

One night he pressed you up against his apartment door the second it closed behind you, toying with the button of your jeans, and murmured, “I’ve been thinking about you all day and I don’t want to wait long enough to make it to bed. Can I please take these off?” 

Another night it was, “Can you tell me exactly what you want me to do to you?” 

“Can I tell you what I dreamed about last night?” 

“Can you bend over the table for me so I can eat you out from behind?” 

“Please let me taste you?” 

It’s _dirty_ , but it’s not “dirty talk” in the way most guys grunt out godawful phrases yanked directly from porn. Spencer’s not trying to talk for the sake of filling the silence; he only says things like “Does this feel good?” and “Do you like that?” because he actually wants to _know_. 

The first few times you slept together, it felt like he touched you for _hours_ , like he completely forgot about his own body in favor of exploring yours, his fingers and lips and tongue teasing every inch of your skin and his eyes sparkling with fascination as he catalogued your reactions. When he found something you liked — when you gasped or twitched under his hands — he repeated it, testing, experimenting like the scientist he is. 

You weren’t wrong about his inexperience. You just underestimated his determination to master this, master _you_ , in the same way he masters everything he sets his mind to. 

Maybe it shouldn’t have surprised you as much as it did. You’ve seen Spencer when he’s in the middle of a case, after all. He gets his map and his markers and he focuses so intently that a goddamn tornado could go through the precinct around him and he wouldn’t even notice. 

And there’s always been something incredibly attractive about the way he holds himself when he’s working: with his eyes narrowed, his long fingers wrapped around a pen, his lips parted as he thinks. When Spencer is in his element, he’s sharp and sure and brilliant. There’s no sign of his usual self-conscious fidgeting when he’s gathering information and testing hypotheses. When he’s curious about something, he forgets his shyness; he’s single-minded, even obsessive, as he searches out answers to his questions. 

The question of the moment just happens to be, “How many times can I make you come tonight?” 

You might lose your mind before Spencer gets his answer. 

“One more?” he asks, husky and heated. 

“I can’t,” you whimper. “There’s no way.” 

“Are you sure?” 

Spencer does something with his fingers that sends sparks jittering out through your skin — it makes you throw your head back, shuddering as your muscles start to spasm with the frisson of heat. 

“You’re welcome to test that theory,” you gasp. “I might be wrong.” 

Wouldn’t be the first time. 

**Author's Note:**

> If you enjoyed this please leave a comment! I would love to hear from you. 
> 
> You can also find me on Tumblr: @there-must-be-a-lock


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